Tainted Blues
by Zighana
Summary: A death beings forth three stories that lead from it: A love story between a troubled painter and a mysterious singer, an aspiring writer with a dream, and a reunion of the people involved with the deceased man. All will be revealed with an old painting that sparked many memories, good and bad.
1. Chapter 1

**Winter, 2014**

They said when you die, it's peaceful. Like in the movies, the dying man says touching and memorable words then close their eyes with one dramatic sigh. People who watched those films leave with a sense of hope; a peace of mind that the good guys die valiantly and honorable, the beauty of death is reserved for those who've earned it. What the movies don't tell you is that death is ugly.

Dallas didn't die like in the movies, he dies violently. Choking and wheezing, scratching at his bed sheets until his fingernails snapped. He struggles to hold on to the last minute, the final seconds lengthened. Within minutes, the fight is lost and he collapses on the bed with a sickening death rattle, then it's over. The people that circled him stared with absolute silence, their breaths leaving them in tune with Dallas's final.

The tension was thick it was suffocating; doctors, nurses, even the family members are unsure of what to do next. A woman stepped forward, and placed the sheet on the now deceased man, cloaking the atmosphere with wailing grief. The people cried and howled with sadness, huddling together like a cult. The weather outside was icy with snow and harsh winds, adding to the grieving.

Dallas Winston died two days short of his 65th birthday.


	2. Chapter 2: Talent

**Chapter One**

**December 16****th****, 1994**

"**I want to interview you for my story." ** Those were the first words that flew out of his daughter's mouth before Dallas could even enjoy his beer. They were in a sports bar on the south side of Oakland, celebrating Dallas's 45th birthday by getting him drunk and watching a good football game. The Raiders were playing, and all Dallas wanted was to watch them in peace. Francine's proposition ruined it for the night.

"Why? Will I get paid? Could you wait till I watch the game?" he spat. Francine bit her pencil and responded, "My editor; he wants me to write him a story within 15 months or I'm fired. I decided to write a story about how you and Mom met. An interracial relationship in the 60s? An automatic best-seller!" She beamed at him through her wild mane of hair, giving her the appearance of a madwoman.

"Listen, sweetheart," He began, placing his beer mug down to face her. His history with Erica was a touchy subject altogether; Francine didn't need to know the gruesome details, other than they '_quietly_' divorced, Erica took Nicholas, and Dallas has never seen or heard from her again. He sees no benefit in digging up old wounds and memories for the sake of a story that probably won't even be read at all.

"I don't think you want to know. You're not ready to hear it."

"I'm 26 years old, _Daddy_. I can handle it, that's what good writers do." She whipped out legal-paper pad and eyed Dallas with a mischievous glint in her eye. "I _will_ have my story, Dad; us writers are very persistent in getting all the scoop on a story before writing it."

"Don't think you're too old to go over my knee now," Dallas warned her through his glass with a snarl. All he wanted was to watch a football game in peace, not be pestered by his spoiled rotten daughter. But still Francine sat, pencil and paper in hand, boring her brown eyes into Dallas with a vengeance. It was enough to make Dallas's heart ache and give in. He growled and cursed under his breath before downing the last of his beer in one go and belched. He asked the bartender for another after saying, "Get that pencil working, girl. Once I talk, you write. I don't want to repeat myself and don't _make_ me regret this."

Francine smiled, her pretty brown eyes glimmering.

God _damn_ she loves to get her way.

**December 16****th****, 1965**

Ink blots. The stark stench of antiseptic and medicine that makes Dallas gag. The walls a soothing green color, littered with framed and laminated accomplishments of the woman he despises. The woman sits patiently across from him, hands clasped over her desk, dull green eyes staring at Dallas's defiant blue ones through her orange specs. The placard read **Ms. McConnell**, in shiny gold letters, mocking him.

"Welcome back, Mr. Winston," She speaks in a calm voice that made Dallas wince. He hated when she called him Mr. Winston; it's an identity he doesn't wish to have and won't have anytime soon. He now craves a cigarette.

It's been two months since the fateful day Johnny died, and Dallas attempted to join him. He survived miraculously but was faced with an attempted murder charge (an ironic twist on his part), and was sentenced to a psychiatric hospital for two weeks, and eiht months therapy after a cry of the people demanded he needed help. Dallas didn't want to remember the psychiatric hospital, and he wasn't planning on going back either; being with Ms. McConnell is making him reconsider.

She's a Woodstock reject with long, flowing red hair paired with long, flowing skirts and beads that jingled when she moves. She smells of patchouli and organic _everything_; she jokes about that often. She's too _calm_, too _accepting_, too _hippie_. It makes Dallas sick with hatred every time he's around her.

"Let's try a new exercise, since it is your birthday." Ms. McConnell began, leaving her desk to circle around Dallas as if in a tribal dance. When Dallas turned around, he was hit with a crude soup-can used as a holder for paintbrushes, wrapped in a cheap polka-dotted ribbon. Out of the corner of Dallas's eye, he noticed an easel and eight cans of paint to his right, wrapped up in bows and ribbon.

"What is this crap?" He barked out. He got up from his chair and snatched the paintbrushes, inspecting them closely. They looked brand new, almost…expensive. Why would she buy him these things?

"Paint. I want you to paint how you're feeling right now. Studies show that art is therapeutic to people who have depression or-"

"I'm not depressed!"

"-suffering from a loss of a loved one," she finished. She looked at him again, searching for an inch of cooperation. When she found none, she sighed deeply and pushed Dallas to the easel after placing the canvas in its rightful place.

"I want you to paint. Just one piece of artwork for me and you can go. You have my word."

Dallas blinked up at her. The court required him three hours with this woman. He was barely one hour in. To do one thing for her and leave; too good to be true! But he'll humor her; he threw the can of paintbrushes to the floor and watched them scatter, all different shapes and sizes. He settled on the largest one in hopes of getting his artwork done quickly. He stared at the cans of paint, and picked a color at random. Dipping his brush into the paint, placing it on the canvas, he tried to figure out what to paint. The average Greaser would've drawn a crude yellow sun, splashes of green for grass, and a stick figure for a person; a rendition of a kindergartner's finger painting.

Dallas was no ordinary Greaser.

He remembered the classes his mother took him to when he was eight, before she abandoned him and his father. It was a _Mommy and Me_ painting class, teaching him art. He absorbed the lessons of colors: from tertiary to primary, to which paints did what. He could almost chuckle at his rusting talent coming to haunt him. He stared at the canvas, and was reminded of his mother.

His mother Claudine, blond hair with blue eyes, staring at him through the backseat window of a taxi cab, swam through his mind.

"_In time you'll understand, Dallas. I just want you to know that your Ma loves you very much."_ She hollered through the glass, and she was gone, driving off into the horizon.

It was on his 10th birthday.

"Bitch," he mutters, slapping paint on with a violent force. His paintbrush moves on autopilot, gliding through the canvas. In the corner of his eye, Ms. McConnell beamed back at him. Rolling his eyes, he continues his work.

His mind rampant, swirling with memories he doesn't want to remember. Johnny's vacant body, the final time he broke up with Sylvia, the nights where his father went too far…

They continued to spin and warp, blending together into jumbled memories and thoughts. When Dallas began crying, he knew it was time to stop. He stepped back and looked at his work, and gasped.

The painting was of a man in a red tuxedo and yellow skin, sitting at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. The background came in shades of blue, making the man stick out. The white and black lines gave an air of hopelessness and misery. He painted this?

"How does that make you feel?" a far off voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Ms. McConnell waits patiently for an answer, making Dallas lick his lips and try for speech.

"Like the one in the painting." He states, looking back at the painting once more, seeing himself stare back at him with anguish.

**December 1994**

"So that's how you got into painting!" Francine drank another Shirley Temple, scribbling into her notepad. Dallas dug into his pocket and lit up, the nicotine rush soothing his nerves.

"Yep, that's how I got started."

"And then what happened?"

"I later learned I have talent…"

**AN: I'm back! I'm terribly sorry for not uploading in years! Well I'm back and I want to thank you two followers and commenters for your lovely support. Much appreciated! :* hugs and kisses for all!**


	3. Chapter 3:Christmas

**Green Onions**

**December 25th, 1965**

Dallas looks at his latest masterpiece, wiping the paint from his hands with a filthy rag. He looks it over, checking for any imperfections before nodding his head and leaving it to dry, satisfied with the results.

After his therapy session with Ms. McConnell, she began their "treaty": make one painting per day, and shave off one hour of therapy. As much as Dallas hates it, he finds painting beneficial than just telling some stranger his problems. He just grabs a paintbrush and whatever he's feeling, whatever comes to mind, just bleeds from his paintbrush and onto the canvas. His mind goes blank; he no longer thinks of his problems, his anger, the hostility against the rich. All that matters is getting his message out before it eats him alive. It becomes a drug of his; whenever his temper boils over, he has to draw, color, and paint. It keeps his anger in check and it makes Ms. McConnell proud to see astounding results in such a short period of time. She even admits to liking his paintings; she gives him heaping praise for his work, but it makes Dallas believe she's just brown-nosing.

Honestly, he finds his paintings nothing special; they're no Frida Kahlo, Salvador Dali, or even Picasso. They're just...paintings. They're simple, they're his messages, and they're personal to him. They're his therapy.

He keeps his paintings; each one he makes he hangs them on the walls of his apartment, some getting a special place in his cabinets, stacked high like plates. Within the four days of this treaty his art became clutter; art supplies, paper, drawings and paintings are scattered all over his apartment, filling Dallas with an indescribable frustration of not finding what he needs, or ruining a new piece from misplacement. Defeated and desperate to de-clutter, he decides to get rid of them.

One chilly afternoon, Sodapop was busy putting firewood in the fire when he hears a loud rapping on his door. Curious and tired from the recent consumption of turkey, he walks to the door with a yawn and opens it.

Here, face red as a bing cherry and blonde hair whipping every which-way, is Dallas.

"Merry Christmas, Soda. I got somethin' for ya."

**-0*0*0*0*0*0-**

Soda can't believe his eyes. Such color, such detail, it's amazing how the colors just...pop.

The painting, done so well it could almost pass for a photograph, is of...chopped green onions sizzling in a frying pan. The highlights made the oil cooking the onions look believable; the green onions seemed to cook right in front of Soda. Hell, he could almost smell them. The vibrancy of the green contrasted with the blacks in the pan and the browns in the background; Soda took it in by bits and pieces.

"So, you want it?"

"How'd you get this?"

"I painted it."

Soda whipped his head so fast his hair flew.

"_You painted this_? I never would've thought..."

"It's a hobby I picked up. A hobby that's leaving junk all over my home. You want it or not?"

"I want it, Dal. It's amazing work. You know, you could sell these paintings and make a lot of greenbacks for it. Those snooty rich people pay top dollar for art like this, many by the hundreds." Soda looked at him with a smile.

"You got talent. You could make money easy." He takes the picture and hangs it in the kitchen, where it is the first thing one could see when they walked in the door.

"You know something," Sodapop dug in his refrigerator, "I can help you give some of your paintings away to help get rid of your junk. How's about I take them off your hands and show them to my co workers at the DX?"

Dallas frowns, eyes unreadable as Soda begins to prepare something for a frying pan.

Should he do it? Give away his paintings to complete strangers so they can criticize his work? So they can tell him he's gone soft for painting instead of fighting, drinking, and chasing girls?

_Painting? You've started painting instead of getting a real job? What are you, a fruit? _His father would sneer as he popped the top of his cheap beer. _Painting is for those uppity bitches and faggots. You think you're better than me because you paint? Cause I could teach you how to be put in your place, how to not be such a faggot..._

Dallas doesn't want to remember the rest.

"No," he finally answers. "I don't want anyone here looking at it."

"What's wrong with here? Our friends and people are not good enough for your art?"

_Uppity bitch..._

"Look at me, Soda." He spins around slowly for emphasis.

"A guy like me, with my reputation, taking up _painting_? I'll be the laughing stock of Tulsa. It's better if no one but you knows what I do as a hobby. So zip it." His ice cold eyes froze Soda to his spot. After a moment of considerable silence, Soda agrees.

"Okay, but what will I say when people ask me where I got my painting?"

Dallas grabbed a white pencil then scribbled an intricate signature.

"Tell 'em Dominic Waters made it."

**December 25th, 1994**

"Dominic Waters? That's...pretty clever."

"Not bad for the top of my head." Dallas helps himself to a other glass of egg nog. The Christmas cheer is lost on Dallas; there's nothing good on TV but those cheesy films and holiday specials that he gets tired of seeing every week. But the egg nog is good, so he helps himself while the bartender sings drunken Christmas carols as patrons cheer. That, and Francine dragged him here because it's the only bar that can make her the best Shirley Temples.

"So then what happened?"

"I had lunch with Uncle Soda. Then, I went into the Soc side of town."

**December 25th, 1965**

It's Christmas, and Dallas is trudging through the snow and harsh winds with his artwork in a cart to deliver to random houses. When he found his house of choice, he'd put a painting on the porch and leave. He got to his third house when someone caught him.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" A voice shouts. Dallas whips his head around, ready to brawl. It's a man about his age, with clothes that tell he's a spoiled socialite. The man gets closer, looking at the odd man in his side of the tracks.

"None of your fuckin' business. Now scram!" Dallas barks, fists held up for warning.

"I want to see what the hell you doing on my side of the neighborhood," he looks at the painting tucked under Dallas's arm. "Are you giving those paintings away?"

"What's it to you? They're mine. I can do whatever the hell I like with'em."

"Those paintings? They look too good to just be throwing them away." The man touches the painting on the porch. The painting shows Dallas's mother sitting in a garden, smiling into the horizon. Etched, in crude handwriting on the far bottom right corner, is the title '**Mother**'.

"How about I buy this one." He picks up Mother, admiring its work and beauty.

"Not for sale," Dallas snatched the painting back from him. He'll be damned if he sells anything to a spoiled rich kid.

"I'll pay you 50 bucks for the painting." Dallas is shoved in the face with money. Glaring coldly, he repeats, "Not. For. Sale."

"_100._ I'll pay you _100 dollars_ for the painting! Come on, man. You're giving away these paintings for _free_. Why not make some money off it?"

"Because I don't sell-out to a Soc. I do what I want and if I say it's not for sale, I mean it. Now either you get moving or you will be picking your teeth off the curb."

"Either you take my money or I'll tell the cops we have a burglar in our neighborhood. You even look like a hoodlum; you'll be in the cooler faster than they can say 'freeze'." The man retorted.

Dallas grinds his teeth, resisting the urge to punch this man's teeth in. One more arrest and it's a few more months in the psych ward. He'll be damned if he goes back.

"100 dollars. Take it or leave it." He grits out, clutching the portrait so tight it leaves depression marks in the canvas. The man smiles and crams the wad of cash into Dallas's hand. Dallas counts it slowly, making sure he's not being short-changed. Seeing he's gotten the right amount, he gives his painting to the snooty man.

"Thank you. Merry Christmas." With that, he turns around and leaves Dallas to himself in the cold winter night.

Dallas returns home that night, holding the wad of cash in his hand. He could buy groceries, finally get some heat in his cold apartment, get some more supplies for his work.

_Work._

That's a laugh; his art has only been a hobby and yet, it made him 100 dollars and he didn't have to steal it.

_You're giving away these paintings for free. Why not make some money off it?_

_You could sell these paintings and make a lot of greenbacks for it. Those snooty rich people pay top dollar for art like this, many by the hundreds..._

He comes up with an idea.

**AN: Thank you guys so much for waiting patiently for me to write another chapter to Tainted Blues (formerly known as Francine). I have been very busy like a bee and hope to get the next chapter posted. I'm so sorry to keep you guys for waiting! Thank you guys so much! :***


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